I

t’s madness!  Sheer madness!  We’re safe here, so we should stay here.’

 

‘Oh, why won’t you listen!  I’ve told you before Reverend, it won’t stay safe for long!  If we don’t leave now we wont have a chance.’

 

‘Look Doctor! If we take one step outside that door, we will die even earlier.  Anyway, they can’t break in now we’ve blocked the doors and windows.’

 

‘A few bits of furniture won’t stop them forever!’

 

‘Once they find they can’t get in…’

 

‘They will get in!’

 

The Doctor and Reverend Cunningham’s voices followed Wallace as he left the kitchen. The partitioning wall mercifully dampened the argument, but still the bickering could be plainly heard.  In a state of absolute stubbornness, the vicar had refused point blank to go along with the little tramp’s plan.  He seemed to think that the creatures would simply get bored and go away.  By contrast, now Wallace had accepted the reality of the zombi menace, he was willing to bow down to the Doctor’s superior knowledge and give the plan a try.  He just wished it would be soon, as the claustrophobic ambience of the packed building was starting to get to him.  He had to admit that he had lost it for a bit earlier, but he was fine now.  Now he had the Doctor to follow. 

 

The change of heart towards his former guest was possibly due to him feeling he was in the man’s debt.  Not only had the Doctor clutched him from the jaws of death, but also he had opened his eyes.  His research had never given him the slightest hint that a body could be reanimated.  Before he had written off such tales as stories for children or the fanciful, but now he knew that there was much more to those otherworldly fables than he had previously thought.  If he survived, he would make it his ambition to fully unravel the mystery of the living dead.  Of course, his studies on human anatomy would come first.  His research – his precious research – had been destroyed in the fire, but all the important facts were stored in his brain.  Bursting to be published for the greater good - if he could find the money to do so.  But if Reverend Cunningham delayed much longer, then he was sure that there would be no escape for any of them.  All his work would have been for nothing.

 

Filtering the raging argument from his head, the scientist paced past Victoria, whose continual beatings of ‘Goosy Goosy Gander’ to Zara was almost as raking to his nerves as the persistent moaning from outside.  Nevertheless, at least the damn song kept both of them from under his feet, and had allowed the adult males to formulate the escape plan free from any major distractions.  In his opinion, neither women, children nor members of the coloured persuasion could ever be counted on to put forward any practical ideas. Unfortunately, rather than thanking God for small mercies, the very fact that the plan was ready further added to his tenseness.  If only they would stop arguing. 

 

Striding to the living room window, the scientist couldn’t help thinking that the vicar probably thought they really were safe in the cottage.  Yet that revelation didn’t make Wallace feel any kinder towards him.  In fact, he was almost tempted to throw him to the bloodthirsty cannibals outside.  If the damn woman didn’t stop her singing, he would happily throw out Victoria as well.  She might be pretty, but the annoying rhyme reminded Wallace why he tended to avoid women and immerse himself in work.  Trying to keep his cool, he idly fiddled with a long carving knife that he had found stuck in to a hulk of bread in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if it would be of much use against the things outside, but it added a little comfort and it was the best that was on offer.  At least it had a sharp blade. 

 

When he reached the window, he glanced over the shoulder of Jamie, who was peering through a crack in the blockade in to the gloom beyond.  The barrier was mainly comprised of an upturned table.  Made of heavy oak, and bought for both its style and hard wearing, it made the perfect obstruction.  Nevertheless, Wallace couldn’t help but notice that one of the legs propping the table in place was working loose.  When it finally did, the obstacle would fall.  The leg couldn’t hold out forever, especially with the Loa’s reinforcements continually gathering, ready to add their weight to the siege.  Anything else that could have been used to reinforce the blockade, already held pivotal roles in further barriers at the other windows and doors.  To remain where they were would eventually end in disaster. 

       

‘How does it look out there?’ he asked the Scott. 

 

His words were more for conversational purposes, as he already knew the answer.  The telltale inhuman moaning and thumping of hungry hands spoke volumes.  Jamie turned away from the crack, staring jealously at the carving knife as he did so.

 

‘It’s nay looking good.  We need to go now before more of those things turn up.’

 

Wallace moved to the crack to see for himself.  There were now over half a dozen corpses in his view, and that was only the ones in sight of this particular window.  Heaven knows how many surrounded the whole building.  He began to inspect one particular zombi, with his usual detached sense of scientific curiosity.  Its body was so mangled that it was completely unrecognisable as either male or female, almost as if had been crushed and eaten simultaneously.  Suddenly, a blur in the corner of his eye accompanied by an unexpected splintering, caused the scientist to yank his head backwards.  He was just in time.  A blood-encrusted hand, now lanced with thin spikes of glass, crashed through the gap between the furniture.  The undead pincushion groped blindly for him, but due to his quick response Wallace was fortunately out of reach. 

 

Raising the knife, he slashed down at the flailing hand, pinning it to the finely varnished wood of the table.  There was no cry of pain.  The aristocrat had almost expected some sort of devilish scream, but the zombi emitted nothing more than the usual unnerving groan.  Hardly noticing that Jamie was by his side, Wallace watched in morbid fascination whilst the hand struggled against the sharp blade.  Each lurch caused the cutting edge to slice sideways in to flesh and bone, until at last there was a nauseating snap and the hand slithered free.  Now little more than a pincer, the appendage was withdrawn in to the night.  Wallace pulled the knife free from the oak finish, allowing a large chunk of pink flesh to glide down the table’s surface and flop unheeded on to the lush carpet.  No sooner had the scientist finished wiping the blooded blade on the curtain, when the Doctor at long last stormed out of the kitchen.  The argument had, for now, ended.

 

‘The self-absorbed idiotic baboon!  I haven’t met someone so stubborn in centuries!’

 

‘Why don’t we just go?  Leave him here?’ asked Wallace bluntly.

 

‘Because if my plan is to work, this building will be full of those corpses.  He won’t stand a chance,’ replied the Doctor, shaking his head despondently.

 

‘If you’re right, none of us will stand a chance if we remain here,’ persisted Wallace, ‘Once the plan is underway it will be his choice to remain or go with us.’

 

‘That’s true I suppose,’ replied the Doctor, giving Wallace a sharp glare.  The logic was accurate but heartless.  He looked wistfully to the kitchen, where Reverend Cunningham could be seen pottering around aimlessly.  ‘Oh, I do wish I could make him understand.’

 

A cry of warning caused the pair to turn to the window, where the young Jacobite had regained his sentry position.

 

‘Doctor!  There’s another three moving up the path.’

 

‘Right, that clinches it,’ said the Doctor quietly, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave the Reverend to his folly.  There’s more at stake than just our lives.’  Suddenly he raised his voice, and grabbed the attention of the whole group.  ‘I’m glad to say we’re off now.  Jamie, you know what to do.  Everyone else, stand by the kitchen door.  Victoria and Zara, I’m afraid there’s no time to explain the plan.  Just follow Wallace when the time comes.’

 

The tenseness of waiting left Wallace’s body, to be replaced with a dreadful anticipation. There would be no room for errors.  He held his breath, as he watched Jamie go to the table and pull at the loose leg.  With its main support gone, gravity took over.  The Scott sprang back, whilst the solid oak tabletop fell downwards.  There was an almighty crash, accompanied by a cloud of dust and splinters, as the mutilated furniture hit the floor.  The remaining legs were sheared off, to lie shattered by its side.  With nothing now blocking the window, a stream of radiance flooded in to the night, illuminating the invaders outside. 

 

Undead from all around homed towards the self-inflicted breach in the cottage’s defences. Those already at the window clamoured at the broken panes.  Wallace recognised the closest as Patrick Rooney.  In life he had been a labourer in a farm just south of the church, but now he was a vessel of the Loa.  Lurching forward, the dead labourer clutched at the broken window with his mangled fingers.  His blooded stumps found their way past the broken pane, as more zombi joined his side.  They too snaked their hands in to the opening, and pulled themselves forward.  Patrick was the first to climb over the windowsill, and across the minefield of glass.  The others followed his trail of blood, and intermingled it with their own. 

 

Wallace backed involuntarily away, as the dead labourer plunged headfirst in to the living room.  Fighting down the urge to panic, the scientist gripped tightly on to the handle of the kitchen door.  He could not run yet.  The signal had not been given.  His mouth ran dry, anticipating the moment he had prepared for.  It finally came when the Doctor darted to the front door, yanking it wide open.  Immediately, the corpses that hadn’t yet made it to the window changed direction for the door instead.  Half a dozen zombi lumbered forwards, at last giving Wallace his cue.  Pushing the kitchen door open, he beckoned for Victoria and Zara to come with him in to the room beyond.  Jamie swiftly followed them.  For a moment, the Doctor stood smiling at the corpses, giving the others vital seconds to get to safety.  He almost stayed too long. 

 

The time traveller was so preoccupied, that he very nearly failed to notice Patrick Rooney awkwardly pulling himself upright.  The crush of glass underneath the corpse’s bare feet alerted the Doctor to the danger in the nick of time.  Desperately he dived towards the safety of the kitchen, as Patrick made a lunge for his fleeing figure.  The grasping fingers missed him, but only just.  Leaping through the door, the Doctor slammed it shut in the dead labourer’s face.  Seconds later the living room was full of the undead, as they crowded through the smashed window and open doorway.  The entity’s puppets pushed on the door to pursue their prey.  The kitchen would not be a refuge for long.  Except this action was what the Doctor had been waiting for.  As it inched open, a small parcel was tossed through the crack, to land in the midst of the corpses. The colourful box exploded with a shrill whizzing and a fierce amber light.  Torrents of multicoloured string shot in to every corner of the room, engulfing zombi and furniture alike.  For one crucial moment, confusion reined in the living room.  Vital seconds were won. 

 

Wallace breathed a sigh of relief when the bolts on the back door were drawn, and the group made their escape from the cottage.  The scientist noted that the Reverend Cunningham had swallowed his pride and followed, his huge belly shaking as he puffed a number of paces behind.  The plan had worked well.  All the corpses had entered the cottage, and were delayed by the Doctor’s strange box of tricks.  Already they were filing out of the cottage, but the small band of the living had a head start.  All they had to do was reach the church first, and they would be safe.

 

‘A Draconian Party Popper,’ the Doctor explained to Jamie, as the pair reached the church door with Wallace immediately behind them. ‘No knees-up is complete without one, and anything that can make the Draconians let their scales down can only be a good thing. Banned in seven worlds, but a jolly good giggle.  Apparently some species are allergic to it.’

 

‘I bet that doesn’t include those things,’ said Jamie with a broad grin.

 

‘No, unfortunately a little rash won’t stop them,’ laughed the Doctor, ‘Can you pass me the key?’

 

‘Um… I thought you had it?’

 

They looked at each other in horror.  To have got so far, to find out that the most important piece of paraphernalia had been left behind.  With a look of terror on his face, Wallace looked back at the cottage.  Slowly but surely, corpses were leaving the building.  Even the bright purple, yellow, and orange string that now adorned their bodies didn’t raise the smallest smile.  Without a key they were trapped in the open.

 

‘Somebody must have it,’ he cried out, his voice raising several octaves in panic.

 

To their side puffed the Reverend, sweating from the short journey.  Wallace glowered at him, until he noticed the large iron loop hanging from his meaty palm.  The vicar promptly turned to the door, and proceeded to fumble with the lock.

 

‘I noticed you left without it,’ he said pompously, ‘So I thought I’d better come with you.’

 

At last the lock clicked open.  Pushing the arched entrance wide enough for his ample frame, the Reverend skulked in to his place of work.  Jamie slipped after him, but as the Doctor was about to follow he suddenly voiced a concern that until now nobody had noticed.

 

‘Where’s Victoria and Zara?’

 

* * * *

 

Mortimer’s cracked ribs throbbed so much that he thought he would pass out.  Each breath brought yet more searing pain, but the oxygen it provided was critical fuel for his frantic journey.  In addition his shins badly ached, and even the twin lumps on his head decided that this was the moment to inform him that they needed mollycoddling.  Pausing momentarily, he drew in a further deep breath.  Another burning stab struck his body, but even before it dissipated Mortimer restarted his uneven trot.  The instinct of self-preservation kept him going.  He knew that more of the disease-ridden madmen were on his trail.  From time to time he caught their groans on the wind, or spotted swaying silhouettes in the distance.  To his horror, they all seemed to be on course for the church.  In spite of this, it was far too late for him to change direction.  And even if he did, he had no idea where he could go instead.  If he stayed in the open, he wouldn’t last much longer. 

 

His desperate mind clung to the belief that murderous madmen would not be allowed to foul the house of God.  The Almighty would prevent such a blasphemy.  If Mortimer had paid any attention to history he would have known this to be false, but his blessed ignorance kept him moving.  It was this blind faith that made the pain bearable, and had enabled him to get within sight of the church spire.  The heavenly sight spurred him onwards.  If he was to die, he at least wanted a chance to pray for his sins in his usual place of worship.  He would ask for a miracle cure for his pursuers’ disease.  After all, hadn’t Jesus cured the leper?  And who knows, he may live after all.

 

Before long, his footsteps rang out on the gravestones that formed the church path.  The long awaited destination loomed up above him.  Mortimer’s head reeled with relief.  He had made it.  Forcing his tired legs to speed up, the mill owner ran straight in to the midst of the madmen he had tried so hard to avoid.  There were dozens of them.  Many were employees from his mill, but others were farmers and labourers, shop owners and publicans.  Several had colourful string-like decoration spread over their lacerated bodies, giving them the appearance of ghastly parodies of circus clowns.  A piece of yellow streamer fell off the shoulder of one man, whom Mortimer recognised as the village blacksmith Gary Ludlow. Drool dribbled down the man’s chin, as his head lolled from side to side at a most peculiar angle.  Many feet, their toes torn from travelling the stony ground, treaded the party adornment in to the mud.   

 

Mortimer froze, and for once his luck held out.  By a miracle, they hadn’t noticed him. Someone or something a short distance away took their full attention.  Craning his dizzy head, Mortimer peered past the madmen.  On the floor lay a young woman.  Her skirts were ripped and muddy, but the mill owner had seen so many women of quality to recognise good breeding when he saw it.  By her cowered a black girl of around eight years old, staring at the advancing madmen.  The mill owner’s thoughts went out to her.  If it wasn’t for her colour, she could have been one of his employees.  There were many of similar build and age in his mill, working hard away on his produce.  It was right that they should be allowed to do so, and bring home a few pennies for their families.  In the same manner as the children of his mill, the black girl held the same air of adulthood and childhood mixed.  A wariness of the world.  Mortimer willed her to flee, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground.  The madmen advanced closer, but she didn’t run.  To the mill owner’s surprise there was a moan, but it was not from the disease-ridden.  The woman on the floor stirred.  She was alive, but the crowd was almost on her.  Forgetting his ills, Mortimer rushed to help. 

 

 * * * *

 

Haziness swamped Victoria’s cranium.  Why was she spread-eagled on the floor?  A whimper of protest left her lips, as she brought her head upright to look at her surroundings. The world was out of focus, but she could sense movement.  And something was moving towards her.  But what?  Then, in a torrent of thoughts, it all rushed back.  They had been running to the church.  She was at the back of the group because Zara’s legs were so much shorter than everyone else, and anyway it was hard to run in her multiple layers of petticoats and skirts.  She must have tripped and hit her head.  How long had she been unconscious? It must have only been seconds, or surely she would be dead by now.  Then the ghastly thought dawned on her.  The movement.  It must be a zombi.   

 

With supreme effort, the Victorian Miss pulled herself unsteadily to her feet.  Immediately, her vision cleared, as if somebody had swept back a pair of curtains inside her head.  Less than five feet away ran a bloody man with ragged clothes.  A member of the living dead was heading straight for her, and behind him shuffled many more.  Unable to contain herself, Victoria let forth a piercing scream.

 

‘It’s all right, Miss.  Come with me,’ said the corpse, ‘I’m Mortimer Russell.  I’m here to help you, but we must hurry.’

 

Victoria stared in to the supposed corpse’s eyes, and saw the friendly gaze of the living. Relief overwhelmed her, but it was short lived.  The shuffling figures behind him were definitely corpses, and they were almost upon them.  Gratefully, she took the offered arm of support.

 

‘Zara!  Where’s Zara!’ 

 

The thought barged in to her brain like a disgruntled bull.  Wildly she looked around, and saw that the youngster was only a few feet away.  However, Zara shrank from Mortimer’s other offered hand.  Victoria knew from her own experience that the man appeared frightening, so it was little wonder that the youngster didn’t trust him.  Without thinking, but knowing every split second was essential, Victoria let go of Mortimer’s hand and scooped the child up in to her arms.  But there was no time to make an escape.  The zombi were already upon them. 

 

She felt her dress clamped by a vice-like grip, almost knocking her off balance.  Gritting her teeth, she tried to yank herself clear, but it was no good.  She was being dragged towards waiting teeth.  Victoria fought back violently, using her long nails to gouge at flesh that felt no discomfort.  There were more needles of pain, and then suddenly she was free.  Thanking her lucky stars, the young woman bolted for the church, with her precious cargo in her arms. Zara trembled, but remained silent.  Nearing the church door, Victoria stole a glance behind her and saw the reason for her sudden freedom.  Mortimer had knocked her attacker to the ground, with a manoeuvre that had swept the corpse’s legs away.  However, luck was no longer on his side.  A strangled cry left Victoria’s throat, as she saw the brave man swamped by the undead monsters.  She cringed when a woman, whom she recognised as Suzanne Sawkins, take the man’s arm and twist.  Blood soaked through Mortimer’s shirt, and he cried out in agony.  Another corpse clamped on to his back, and bit down.  In triumph, a mouthful of cloth and white flesh was torn and swallowed.  And then the rest of the undead joined the feast.

 

A hand on her shoulder caused Victoria to start.  Fearfully she spun around, but it wasn’t a corpse.  She looked up in to the concerned eyes of the Doctor, but before she had fully regained her composure she noticed Jamie pass by her, back in to the night.  She was taken aback to see Wallace follow him, brandishing a carving knife with a grim look of determination set in his eyes.  Worry brimmed over.  The scientist mood hadn’t changed again had it?  He hadn’t turned on Jamie, forcing him at knife point back in to the clutches of the things outside?  She looked to the Doctor with an anxious expression frozen on her pretty features. 

 

‘It’s all right, Victoria,’ said the Doctor, ‘They are going to try to save that man who helped you out there.’

 

‘His name is Mortimer.  Mortimer Russell,’ whispered Victoria, almost to herself.  Even so, she was glad that her hasty conclusion had been proved so false.

 

She allowed herself to be escorted inside, and gently laid Zara near the entrance.  Only then did she insist on accompanying the Doctor back in to the churchyard, to aid Jamie and Wallace.  To her immense relief, by a miracle the mill owner had been pulled from the mass of hungry corpses.  The flash of Wallace’s knife held them at bay, albeit temporarily. Between the four of them, they half dragged, half carried Mortimer in to the church.  He was in a very bad state, but he was still alive.  The heavy door was slammed and locked behind them.  Immediately the pound of undead fists began, heralding the start of the siege.  As the hammering filled the house of worship, the young time traveller couldn’t help thinking that one death trap had been replaced for another.